


The Best Treatment

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: Winchester U [1]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma - Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: Emma and Henry are in love with other people, but they’ve always been willing to help each other out.





	The Best Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Jane Austen ‘verse Modern College AU no one asked for! This is the first story, but there may be more. I’m keeping some canonical pairings, but I’m also switching things up, because isn’t that more fun. The idea all started with me thinking, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun if Emma Woodhouse and Henry Tilney were fuck buddies?” and I up and decided to write at least that much.
> 
> Have I achieved perfect Jane Austeniness? Probably not, but I hope you can enjoy this anyway.
> 
> Don’t own these folks, but that’s OK because they’re in the public domain.

**by Vera d'Auriac**

 

Emma Woodhouse—stressed out, hungover, and late—rolled out of bed, cursing the day she was born nearly as much as she mentally chastised vodka, college, and Sherwood Anderson, because, to her mind, these things existed in this world expressly to both distress and vex her.

Squinting again at the clock on her phone, she saw that she didn’t have time for any manner of morning toilet if she wanted to make it to her American Lit class, and she would be damned if she missed the final discussion of _Winesburg Fucking, Ohio_ actually proving she had made it to the end of the festering pile of shit. Her only concession to not offending her classmates was deodorant, clean clothes, and a handful of breath mints. Her coffeemaker dripped out enough life sustaining liquid to fill her travel mug as she shoveled book and laptop into her bag and searched under her bed for her other shoe. Coffee poured, she grabbed a loaf of uncut Italian bread she’d picked up at the bakery down on Front Street the day before and ripped off hunks as she made her way across campus.

At 10:01 she plopped into her chair at the conference table in the English Department building. Henry Tilney smirked beside her, but she easily got him to stop silently taunting her by pushing the bread in front of him so he could tear a piece off for himself. Not that she terribly minded his taunts, if she were being honest with herself, which was not always necessarily the case. He was quite handsome—wavy brown hair atop his pale, sculpted face with the soft brown eyes and mischievous smile. Were she other than she was, she would have been in love with him, but being as she was, they contented themselves with being friends with exceptionally good benefits.

Besides, after declaring her freshman year that she would never enter into a serious relationship with a man, she had somehow managed to fall hopelessly in love with Dr. Knightley, Professor of Law and old family friend. Not that she would ever realize her dream of attaining him—he was as likely to love her as she was to admit her love to anyone other than Henry. Her personal life truly was racing toward calamity here in her senior year, and last night after finishing _Winesburg, Ohio_ , worst book to worm its undeserving way into the American literary canon, she had celebrated with a shot of vodka. And then another, at which point she began to envision Dr. Knightley’s stalwart face with its slight grimace that he saved just for her, and before she knew what had happened, she had rather finished the bottle of vodka and the clock was nearing 3:00 am.

“I cannot believe you either celebrated a triumph or drowned so deep a woe on a Sunday night without calling me,” Henry whispered as Dr. Weston set out her notes and a copy of the novel littered with a rainbow of colored post-it notes.

“Bit of both,” Emma whispered back. “But not really worth the hangover.”

“I have to go to Ford’s to buy new nibs and cartridges for my pens after class. Come with me and after we’ll have a greasy lunch over which you can tell me everything.”

Emma nodded, so as not to disturb Dr. Weston, who was beginning the discussion. (Emma had known Dr. Weston back when she was Anne Taylor, a poor graduate student looking for extra cash by babysitting the precocious children of members of the university’s Board of Trustees. She had been without question Emma’s favorite babysitter, and even though some people asked her if it was weird to now have Dr. Weston as a professor, Emma insisted that there was nothing more natural. “Miss Taylor, as my father still insists on calling her, is the person who instilled my love of Fitzgerald and Hemingway. There’s nothing more exciting for me than taking her class.” Of course, even though this was American Lit, they weren’t reading either Fitzgerald or Hemingway, and Emma tried not to be bitter about that.)

The discussion proved barely more interesting than the novel, and Emma could not refrain from slamming Anderson’s characters. “Yes, I understand the book is full of themes of isolation, and yet I hate all these people, without exception, and want them to die in a fire. Frankly, if I lived in this town, I’d want these unstable malcontents isolated from me, too. Oh, actually, I _do_ live in a town not terribly dissimilar to Winesburg. And guess what—I don’t actually know _any_ of these people. This is merely Anderson projecting his own discontent with small town Ohio for not being Paris or at least Chicago. And if he’d rather go live somewhere more exciting, I’ve no doubt the people of Ohio wish him good riddance.”

“But the question is,” Dr. Weston said in her always soothing voice, “whether or not author succeeds in demonstrating the isolation of the characters.”

“Well, I suppose he _is_ successful in that.”

Henry snorted next to her, as did several of the other students, and Dr. Weston nodded and went on to her next topic.

After class, Emma and Henry headed out into a lovely early fall day, not too warm or too cloudy, and slowly made their way to downtown Hartfield, neither of them having another class until Henry’s Comparative Theology class at 1:00. She still found it amusing that rather by accident, Henry had ended his junior year so close to having a double major in English and Religion that rather than kicking back his senior year, he was rushing to finish up requirements for both majors. Of course, he had no idea what he would do with either degree beyond the delightfully vague “go to grad school.”

Emma, on the other hand, had a precise route mapped for herself, beginning with graduate school right here Winchester University where she could remain near her father, and then hopefully a tenure track position, again right here. It was really the only way she saw being able to take care of her sickly father and have an academic career, and she was certain she could manage it. After all, she knew everything there was to know about her Department’s faculty, and Dr. de Bourgh would almost certainly be looking to retire about when she finished her PhD. Granted, she taught Chaucer and English poetry, and Emma wasn’t particularly interested in either, but the department had no French literature specialist, and with her minor in French and near fluency thanks to practice with Dr. Knightley ever since she was a girl, she thought she could make a compelling case to the department to hire her.

Their stop at Ford’s was useful as always, Henry purchasing his pen supplies, and Emma snatching up the first of the winter gloves before the rush started in a month or two and everyone suddenly remembered how bitterly cold it got here. Once they completed their shopping, they slipped into the bar next door—the Pump Room—which served up the best greasy burger and fries in town. As they waited for meals that would mark the caloric intake for an entire day for a normal person, Emma drained two glasses of water and spilled her heart out to Henry.

“I just wish I had never realized that I loved him,” she sighed. “Life would be remarkably easier if I could just go about fucking who I wanted without worrying about love.”

“Yes, I know.” He shook his head before taking a sip of his beer. “But, alas, love will prove the ruin of us all, for such is life and the human heart.”

“What kind of crap is that? When we talked about this at the beginning of the semester, you laughed at me for indulging in romantic nonsense.”

“But, Emma darling, everything has changed.”

She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to answer, sucking water through her straw without breaking eye contact.

“I, too, have been pierced by cupid’s arrow.”

She nearly snorted water out of her nose. “Do not tell me you are in love? Who is the unfortunate woman? I’ll send her a sympathy card.”

He frowned, his mouth scrunching tighter as he debated what to tell her. At least that was Emma’s guess as to what was going through his mind at this moment, and they had been friends since freshman year, and how many people did you actually bother remaining friends with after freshman year? But just when he opened his mouth as though he might deign to answer her question, the waitress arrived with burgers and fries.

As soon as the waitress headed off, Emma pointed a fry accusingly at the tip of Henry’s nose. “Do not think you can avoid answering the question by eating. I will have my answer from you.”

Quite deliberately, Henry took a nearly dangerous bite out of his mushroom swiss burger. Emma contented herself to nibbling on fries that she doused in vinegar while he chewed, which left her ready as he finished swallowing. “A name. Now.”

He sighed and leaned back against the booth, still clutching his burger, but making no move to take another bite. “Do you promise to not send a sympathy card if I tell you her name? I can never be entirely sure when you’re joking.”

“I will say no more to her than you would ever say to Dr. Knightley. Surely you know me better than to assume I would spill your secret.”

“I know that you love playing matchmaker. Ever since you took credit for Harriet and Robert getting together, credit you absolutely do not deserve, you have been a monster trying to force people together.”

“What? I have become the Uncrowned Queen of screw your roommate dances. People flock to me for advice.” She decided she would be safe starting on her own burger at this point, certain Henry would have plenty to blather on about as she chewed.

“That’s because you’re screwing people over, not helping them.” Henry was able to hurry on, Emma unable to defend herself against this slander for the bacon cheeseburger in her mouth. “Lizzie Bennet and William Collins. Her roommate, Charlotte, was too busy writing her senior thesis to set Lizzie up, and she trusted some know-it-all sophomore to do right by her roommate. When she asked you to find Lizzie an older man, she never expected you to come back with that oily little shit.”

Emma swallowed. “That was a genuine _screw_. If I am a know-it-all, then I can only imagine what that makes Lizzie, insufferable woman. But when I try to do right by people, I do quite well, thank you very much. Just look at Marianne Dashwood and John Willoughby.”

“Have you really not heard? John was nearly expelled after he was caught snorting coke during exam week last spring. The fraternity helped get him into rehab over the summer, which is the only way the school let him come back. But when Marianne heard, she dumped him. Well, when her sister heard, she made Marianne dump him.”

“Well, fuck.” Emma really was rather shocked she hadn’t heard about that, but when she thought of it, that sort of news could very well have fallen through the cracks. Last spring, she had been lucky to finish finals early, and then she had immediately headed to spend a month with her sister in New York. Anything could have happened those last couple days of finals and the news would have been so dated when she got back no one would have thought to mention it. “So, okay, maybe that didn’t work out. Still, you can trust me.”

“I’ve just listed some of your most infamous failures at matchmaking. Why on earth would I reveal my heart’s true desire to a meddlesome woman such as yourself?”

“Because you tell me everything. Now out with it.” She tore a bite from her burger.

Henry sighed and shook his head, but she knew he was about to answer. “Her name is Catherine.”

Emma raised an eyebrow and shook her head to indicate that she had no idea who he was talking about, which quite surprised her, because how could her best friend be in love with a woman she had never even heard of? It was absurd.

“She’s a freshman. You’ve probably never met her, but she came with some friends to the party we threw first week.”

She knew the party he was referring to—Henry’s fraternity had thrown a welcome back cookout, complete with a giant pig on a spit. Hell, she had been at it. “I distinctly remember seeing a gaggle of freshman girls at that party shortly before you and I walked upstairs and reminded each other of the benefits we’d been missing out on all summer.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” he said around a mouth of food that he swallowed quickly and finished washing down with some beer. “So, anyway, she and her friends have been back. They are friends with some of the guys we’re rushing, and well, she’s incredibly sweet, and she need not be corrupted by the likes of you, so leave her alone.”

Emma put her hands up in surrender. “As you wish. I suppose the only question I have, since I am not permitted to help you court this young lady, is does this make any different between us?”

Henry snorted. “I should think not. Unless some relationship should happen to spring up between myself and the delightful Miss Morland, then you may call for my bootie any time at which you require it.”

“Well that’s a relief.”

***

That Friday after classes and a particularly fine night of quesadillas at the dining hall, Henry found himself at his frat house on a couch in Frank Churchill’s room, Emma leaning against him as others flitted around to overly loud music under the illumination of strands of white Christmas lights. They had both had long weeks ending in stressful Friday afternoons—Emma had a French test and he’d turned in his first paper for Apologetics—and neither felt chatty as a result. Of course, neither felt like a quiet night in, either, hence they had joined the party at Frank’s. _Such are the contradictions of the physically exhausted extrovert_. They both sipped beer from bottles and watched the laughing, increasingly drunken fun happening around them.

“Are we old?” she asked. “I feel old.”

“No. We are clearly in our prime.”

“I remember a time when I would finish a week like the one I just had, starting it off with a hangover and ending it with a brutal test, and I would be doing shots of vodka and dancing on a table.” She sipped her beer. “Now look at me. No wonder I have no love life.”

“You’re in love with a professor who’s almost old enough to be your dad.” Henry politely whispered this, since her feelings for Dr. Knightley were not universally known. “You think he would just fall at your feet if he only knew how well you could hold your liquor and not fall off furniture?”

“Whatever. I’m ancient.” Henry could see her glance to the corner where Catherine sat peeling beer labels with her friend Isabella, whose brother, John, was rushing the frat. “If she wises up to what a catch you are, I may never get laid again.”

“Nonsense. There are plenty of men who would be happy to fuck you.”

“Really? Name one.”

Henry shrugged, not having thought this through, and he blurted out the name of the first person he saw. “I’m pretty sure Frank would fuck you for starters.”

But Emma shook her head and finished her beer. “If you’re my fuck buddy, he’s my flirt buddy. He and I are all talk, no action, and we’re happy to have it that way. Besides, I hear he has the hots for some girl at another school.”

Henry, naturally, had heard the Jane Fairfax rumors as well. In fact, he knew they were not rumors, but truth, and she would be coming for Homecoming, at which time they intended to announce their engagement. And even if that were not the case, Henry knew Emma was right, and as outrageously flirtatious as Emma and Frank had always been, they would probably never sleep together under any circumstances. “Well, fine, but what about Edmund Bertram.”

Emma threw back her head and laughed so loudly everyone in the room turned to look at her, but she just kept laughing as though she wasn’t monopolizing attention in the room. “That fucking prig in all your Religion classes? Does he even know how to find his own penis, because I question whether or not he even knows how to masturbate.”

“He’s a very nice guy. And when you came up recently, he said you were very pretty.” _His exact words when she came up were: “Oh. That friend of yours. Yes, I suppose she’s pretty.” But there’s no reason for Emma to know that._

Emma theatrically placed the tips of her fingers to her chest and pulled a face that sarcastically said, “Who? Little old me?”

“Okay. Fine.” Henry saw that he needed to relent on Edmund, who really might not even know how to masturbate. He should invite the poor guy over to the frat house some night when George Wickham had everyone over for beer and porn _. Wickham really does know how to find the most…educational…stuff._

“Nope. I’m just going to be lost if you ever settle down with a nice girl.” Emma heaved a magnificent sigh and dropped her head on his shoulder. “I need another beer.”

“Why, yes, you do. That bottle appears to be empty.”

“Are you going to get it for me?”

“Are you going to pick your head up and release me from the couch?”

“I’m pretty comfy the way I am, actually.”

Henry chuckled, but he also grabbed the two ratty throw pillows from the end of the couch and propped them up, ready to slide them into place once he stood. And once he sprang into action, he was really more pleased than not with the maneuver, even if Emma’s neck did land at a slightly awkward angle. She half smiled up at him. “I guess I will have to make the best of the situation I have been given.”

Henry longed to kiss her on the forehead, but that might be a step too far in front of Catherine, who likely would not understand it for the platonic gesture he would intend. He settled for a pat atop her head instead. “The situation isn’t _that_ bad, is it? I think it’s fairly good myself.”

Her face spread into a genuine grin now. “I suppose it’s not bad at all.”

“Excellent. Now, rest there like a good girl, and I shall return in a jiffy with refreshments.” Emma closed her eyes and relaxed, and he couldn’t help but smile at the way she managed to look more young and innocent than he knew she truly was.

She must have felt his gaze lingering on her, because she opened her eyes and pierced him with a quizzical glare. “What? You’re looking at me like I’m a convoluted problem to be solved in some paper.”

“Would you say I appear…professorial?”

Emma snorted. “At times I suppose you could say that.”

 _I’ve got it. I know how to cheer us both up. She’s not going to see it coming, but I know she’s going to love it_. “Any reason we couldn’t be alone at you room tomorrow night?” He bent over and whispered the words in her ear, not wanting anyone else to hear. As an RA, Emma had a single, but that didn’t mean she might not have plans of some sort, and he wanted to make absolutely certain they were not interrupted once they started what he had in mind.

“None at all. Why?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow night. At 9:00.”

“7:00.”

“8:30.”

“8:00.”

 _Ah, Emma. Skipping 7:30 knowing I would just say 8:00, but her way got us to the point more quickly. This is why we’re friends_. “8:00, then. Wear something…youthful.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Think about it while I get us a couple more beers.” He turned and walked to the fridge, leaving Emma to try and puzzle it out.

***

Emma’s Saturday began much as they often did—she woke at noon, and other than climbing out to grab another cup of coffee, she remained in her bed checking Instagram and Twitter until 1:30. At that point, she realized that she really was rather starving and had nothing remotely suitable in her minifridge, so she showered and meandered to the store on the corner where she could get chicken salad and crackers with some cheese and grapes. She ate her happy repast on a bench in the shade of an oak outside her dorm and thought about her impending night with Henry.

His instruction to “wear something youthful” still puzzled her. First of all, why would he make a request about her wardrobe, and second, and perhaps more strange, why _that_ request? Well, and third, what should she wear to fulfill the vague directive of “young”? She could choose a somewhat immature look, de-aging her, say, and handful of years, but did he want younger yet? Prepubescent? Infantile? It would serve him right if she opened the door to him that night in a diaper sucking on a binkie. But he probably meant girlish, and she could pull something like that together. Her longest tunic—red and black stripes with a scoop neck and empire waist—with a pair of over the knee socks would be an interesting look. And she could put her hair in pigtails and layer on the bubblegum pink lipstick. She should probably take another shower and give closer attention to hair removal.

Oh, and it might not be a terrible idea to do some homework, clean her room, and get some exercise. Well, the way Henry had looked at her last night, he would most likely be helping her with the latter at 8:00. For now, she needed a fresh razor blade.

***

It was pushed to the back of his closet, behind even the navy suit he saved for weddings and funerals, but Henry eventually located the tan corduroy blazer with brown leather elbow patches. He’d owned it so long, he honestly couldn’t say now if he had bought it ironically or because he liked it. _Or C, all of the above. That really would be like you_. But the important fact was he had it, and it would be the perfect thing to wear tonight over to Emma’s, along with a white button down, his most boring tie, and khakis. Granted, he had never seen Dr. Knightley in such an outfit, but a polo shirt and gray slacks were too nondescript to fit the mood he wished to create.

And he did hope for a mood, for both their sakes. They had never truly roleplayed before, and he hoped Emma would still go along with his scheme even if he didn’t explain it ahead of time. He also wondered if he ought to have been more precise in his suggestions as to her wardrobe, but he wasn’t certain how to do so without pointing at dear Catherine on the other side of the room and saying, “Can you dress like that?” But just as he would not literally look like Dr. Knightley for her, Henry could evoke his aura. He had no doubt Emma could do the same for Catherine, once she understood the game. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true—he could not believe that Emma had ever been as naïve as Catherine, even in preschool.

Whatever the exact outcome, he had faith that the sex would be as good as always. At the very least, if Emma disliked the idea of playing the innocent girl for the night, he would happily take her as the experienced woman she was. Still, no harm in trying out some fun and games to cheer each other up once in a while. No worries. The night would be splendid.

***

Emma readied everything—her person and her room—with time to spare for a little homework, so she finally cracked open _Bonfire of the Vanities_ , which her American Lit class had already started discussing this past week. She supposed she was liking the novel well enough when a knock came on her door, but she had no objection to putting it down. Bookmark carefully inserted, she dropped Wolfe on her desk, and straightened her tunic/dress as she gave the candles a quick once over to make certain none had gone out while she sat waiting for Henry. All was in place, and Emma fairly skipped to her door, though she stopped with her hand mere inches from the handle so she might whip back around and pop the sucker in her mouth she had left on her dresser precisely for this moment. She grinned around the candy as she reached for the door and pulled it open.

The sucker nearly dropped from her lips when she saw Henry standing there—ridiculous blazer and khakis, hair smoothed down as much as his curls would agree to go. It barely looked like Henry at all, save for the mischievous smirk, and somehow that most Henry of features set off the rest of it and turned it all into something surprisingly appealing. Her equanimity restored through sheer force of will, she leaned against the door and pulled the sucker from her mouth with a somewhat obscene pop. She raised her eyebrows at him, and said, “Well, hello there, sir. Would you like to come in?”

His smile broadened as he replied, “I would be delighted. Thank you.”

Emma moved aside to allow him to enter, swishing her tight, springy ponytail while never taking her intentionally vacant gaze from him. “I’m so glad you came over, sir,” she said, closing the door. He chuckled, and she got the impression he liked being called, “sir,” at least for tonight. “I hope everything is to your liking.”

“Very much so,” he answered. He set down a bottle of red wine on her dresser before he turned back around to face her. “You look quite youthful, indeed.”

She popped her sucker back into her mouth, and she proceeded to suck until her cheeks completely hollowed out, and when Henry grinned in obvious appreciation, she began moving her tongue around her mouth in such an exaggerated way he would notice even with her lips closed. “I’m glad I managed to do what you wanted. That’s my greatest desire in all the world.”

“Is it really now? I have long suspected your great desire was to be taught a lesson or two by a man with greater knowledge.”

And at last, she got it. Henry’s look was professorial, because he wanted to be her Dr. Knightley for the night, and she was meant to be his naïve freshman stand-in for Catherine. She licked her sticky bottom lip, ready to give Henry as good as he gave. She took a step closer to him and dragged her fingertips down his tie. “I’m sure you could teach me all sorts of things.”

He leaned close so that she felt his breath on her cheek when he said, “And do you promise to be a good girl and do everything I say?”

Emma paused to think, part of her desperately wanting to push him and challenge him to punish her if she wasn’t a good girl, hoping, in fact, she now realized, that perhaps he might use the very tie under her fingers to keep her in place while he disciplined her. But that was certainly not what sweet Catherine Morland would say, and truth be told, she likely would never say it to Dr. Knightley, either. She tucked the idea away for another night, deciding to stick with the game Henry had introduced. “I’ll do anything you say, sir.”

“Will you, now?” he said, gently gliding his hand down the top of her arm. “Let us sit down and discuss the options.” Henry took her by the hand, and she expected him to lead her to the bed, but instead he sat slightly askew in the straight-backed chair at her desk. She was about to sit on his lap, when he squeezed her hand and pulled down. “Kneel on the floor, Miss Woodhouse.”

If she had suspected that calling him “sir” turned Henry on, she was made positively wet by his formal address of her, and she practically collapsed on the floor at his feet, ready to do his bidding.

“Very good, Miss Woodhouse. Now, your assignment is to amuse me while I read.” He picked up _Bonfire of the Vanities_ and began to read, his posture erect and proper but for the way his legs fell open in invitation for how she could amuse him.

Emma tossed the remainder of her sucker in the trash next to the desk, and briefly thought about grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and having a quick drink to wash away the stickiness, but she didn’t know if Henry would thank her for the cold mouth. (She would ask him about temperature play some other time, since he seemed open to trying new things.) Instead, she wiggled forward between Henry’s thighs, tugging down on the hem of her “dress” to show off her cleavage, and sighed dramatically. “I hope this is okay, sir.”

“No talking, Miss Woodhouse.”

A shiver ran down Emma’s spine and straight to between her legs. She was already so wet, she questioned why she had bothered with panties, other than the fact she had thought Henry would find the tiny pink lace thong cute. But she could worry about her own needs later (as if serving Henry wasn’t filling a need she hadn’t known she had), and she would tend to the man before her. So with deliberately shaking hands that she knew he was watching around the edge of Tom Wolfe, she opened his zipper.

Henry shifted slightly, and she bowed her head to hide her grin, because she well knew it had been an involuntary movement on his part. Instead, she focused on opening his brown leather belt and unfastening the button beneath. Pulling open his pants as best she could while he sat, she tentatively reached in, through the fly of the white briefs she hadn’t suspected he owned, and freed his oh so very erect cock. The tip glistened with precum, and she had never so longed to have him in her mouth.

Slowly, she leaned forward, at first just breathing awkwardly on the tip of him, but then her tongue stretched between her teeth to lick cautiously at him, as though his dick were an ice cream cone she worried might be too cold. He hissed through clenched jaws, and she repeated the gesture, as though she were still uncertain, as opposed to knowing for absolute certain she was driving him wild. Henry’s hips shifted and she licked once more, and again and again, cleaning the tip of precum before pushing her tongue firmly into the slit. At that, he groaned out loud, not even attempting to hide his pleasure, but Emma sat back on her heels (the pressure of her clit on her foot sending a throbbing through her), and she peer up at him under fluttering eyelashes. “Oh, sir, I hope I didn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“I told you,” he growled through gritted teeth, “no talking, Miss Woodhouse.” And at that, he grabbed her by the ponytail and forced her mouth onto him until his cock bumped the back of her throat.

Emma moaned around him, and whatever else he wanted from tonight, she had no doubt he wanted a great blowjob, so for the time being, she set aside her Catherine Morland persona and became once more, Emma Woodhouse, Master Cocksucker. She let her throat relax and ran her tongue along the length of him as long as Henry held her down, but as soon as he released her head, she went to work. Seeing as how she and Henry had been friends with benefits through most of college, she well knew what he liked in a blowjob. Yes, near the end the key was just to suck for all she was worth, but in the lead up, he loved it messy—lots of licking, alternating between shallow and deep, her clever hands helping when all her exhausted jaw would allow her was to drool on him. He wanted variety and every sensation she could give him, hard and soft, sweet and filthy. If only she had him on the bed to better access to the rest of what he hid in his briefs, she could really set his world on fire. But then again, that was for another night—no virginal freshman would appreciate the importance of a man’s prostate.

While she went about her business, Henry not only attempted to read Wolfe, but to read it aloud to her. After clearing his throat while she nosed at his balls through his underwear, he began. “’Like more than one Englishman in New York, he looked upon Americans as hopeless children whom Providence had perversely provided with this great swollen fat fowl of a continent.’ That’s rather amusing, don’t you think, Miss Woodhouse?” She hummed her agreement, and he went on. “’Any way one chose to relieve them of their riches, short of violence, was sporting, if not morally justifiable, since they would only squander it in some tasteless and useless fashion, in any event.’ Quite clever, that.”

Emma did not attempt to answer, rather she switched from long licks up Henry’s cock to focusing on sucking the head as meaningfully as she could. At that point, Henry dropped _Bonfire of the Vanities_ , and shoved his fingers into her hair. She knew this as the signal that he now wished to set the pace as he neared his climax. In her heart she smiled, but her lips only curled over her teeth so she would be ready for anything Henry dictated.

The pace he chose was more brutal than anything he had asked of her before, and she forgave this lapse in the game, knowing he would never treat some innocent girl this way, but also realizing that the game had turned him on so much he could not help himself. Emma reveled in the pleasure she was giving him, her own limbs trembling with bliss while her clit rubbed across her heel as he rocked her back and forth. God, she was closer to her own orgasm than she had realized, but her mind blurred and she sucked and let Henry use her utterly until he came down her throat, his hand pulling hard, destroying her ponytail. She swallowed everything before she let him drop from her mouth and fell onto his thigh, panting.

Neither of them spoke, their breaths coming in heaves, bodies shaking, until Henry whispered, “You’re making a mess of my pants, Miss Woodhouse.”

She opened her eyes and saw a patch of her drool on his khakis, and perhaps a spot of his cum that she hadn’t quite managed to swallow after all. For a moment, she didn’t know if she was still up for the game, but Henry was, and it had felt so good pleasing him, and she longed to feel more of that. She knew she would never be as naïve as Henry wished her to pretend tonight, but she was surprised at how much she genuinely enjoyed him taking absolute charge of the situation. This sort of behavior was rather the last thing she had suspected herself capable of, but perhaps it helped explained her attraction to Dr. Knightley, and Henry, bless him, had understood this about her. Whatever the case, she would continue with the setup, quite happily, for the rest of the night.

Emma sat back on her heels, the pressure against her clit sending a shiver through her, so she might once more demurely look up at Henry. “I’m so sorry, sir. I just can’t control myself. Is there anything you can do to control me?”

With a growl, Henry was out of the chair and pushing her back on the floor. Rather than wrapping her arms around him, she flung them over her head, wrists crossed on the thin carpet beneath them. Henry kissed her so hard, the back of her head hurt, pushed into the floor, but she wouldn’t have stopped him for anything. Eventually, though, he must have realized that while she returned his kisses with equal passion, she was not touching him, and he opened his eyes and broke apart enough to spy her hands and their position. A flicker of his eyes to hers, and she knew he understood.

Exhibiting a power he normally did not with her, he dragged her by the hand several feet until her outstretched hands fell less than a foot short of the bed leg. Rather than using the tie she had considered when he arrived, he yanked the already open belt from his khakis and snapped it around her wrists. Once he had them pulled tightly together, he looped the end around the bed and knotted it. A part of her mind knew that if she needed to, she could free herself from this confinement, but she wanted to stay where Henry put her more than anything.

Her dress was a mess and her socks had slipped below her knees, but Henry seemed long over what she was wearing. He slid down her body and pushed the dress up over her stomach, but rather than removing her soaking panties, he merely pushed them to the side and slipped two fingers into her. “My goodness, Miss Woodhouse. Have you been getting yourself excited?”

“I…I didn’t mean to, sir. Please don’t be angry.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh. “Angry?” He kissed the other thigh. “No. I don’t think I can be angry with you, Miss Woodhouse.”

Effortlessly, he slipped his shoulder under her right thigh so he might access her better, removing his fingers and replacing them with his tongue, while the oh so damp fingers slipped lower to push at her other entrance. Without conscious thought, her hips lifted in the air, surely smearing her wetness across his face, but she could not help that any more than she could contain her moans. “Oh sir, please!”

“Please what, Miss Woodhouse?” he asked between licks at her immensely sensitive clit. “What do you want me to do? Use your words.”

“Everything! More! Fuck, it feels so good.”

“’It feels so good,’ what?”

“It feels so good, sir. Fuck.”

She could have sworn he giggled, but she was far beyond caring, especially when his tongue began to work in earnest against her clit and one of his fingers breeched her. At that point, she was senseless with passion, overwhelmed by the tingle pervading her body, her need for more and for release. And much like when she had been pleasing Henry, whatever else might be happening here tonight, he knew her and knew her body and knew how to get her off. It wasn’t even another minute before her climax arrived and she was pressing her clit to his tongue, growling deep in her throat because she had nothing to muffle the screams so longed to release. Henry, bless him, stayed with her until she had her fill, and she pushed his face away with a thigh.

“Well,” he said, resting his head just above her knee and peering up at her, “I suppose at the end of the day, you are a very good girl after all.”

“I’m so glad you think so.” She paused. “Sir.”

Henry laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Emma, I just knew you would take to this.”

“It helps that you did such a magnificent job. Really, the blazer I can almost believe, but tighty whities? Did you have to go out and buy those special for tonight?”

He snorted at this as he started to crawl up her body to release her hands. “I did not. But I would have for you. You would have deserved no less.”

“I always deserve the best treatment, because I never put up with any other.”

Henry kissed her, slow and deep, and neither of them minded the taste of themselves on the other. “And you never should. I hope you get all you want someday.”

“I hope that for you, too.” He freed her, and Emma used a hand to stroke his cheek. “And until then, we have each other.”


End file.
